And yet another shot at the title (part xxxv)

After dinner, which was huevos rancheros, Slick Rick tried to tell me about his six year old daughter whose name was Sandy, or Sally, or Shannon or some shit. “She’s already in Mensa!” he proudly said.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I told him. “Where’s Cornelius?”

Rick shrugged. “His room probably.”

So I sauntered upstairs to his son’s room where I found Cornelius shouting antiquated racial slurs to some Polish kids over his headset. He was playing some shoot-em-up game on his PS19. The room was littered with grape soda bottles and reeked of piss.

“Knock knock,” I said.

“Sup,” Cornelius replied without taking his eyes off the game.

“So being as I’m probably your grandpa and all, I was wondering if you’d like to come on set for the next movie I’m about to shoot.”

“Will there be bare titties there?” he said, eyes still glued to the screen.

“You know it,” I told him. “And afterwards, you can come to my house in the hills and I’ll show you my massive Penthouse collection.”

“Do you have the old ones where the girls have massive bushes?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm,” Cornelius pondered. “Yeah I guess.”

“Great!” I exclaimed. “I’ll have a limo pick you up next Tuesday and take you to Burbank!”

“Whatever dude.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Sure.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (xxxiv)

Cornelius Vanderbilt Crane Pietermeister sat across from me at the dinner table in his father’s poorly lit home in Glendale. Rick’s Latina wife, I never caught her name, was constantly in and out of the kitchen. Rick chatted with his six year old daughter, I also never caught her name, while I tried to banter with Cornelius. He was a teen of about 16; prematurely balding, overweight, and covered in acne scars.

“So Cornelius, getting any ass?” I asked him.

“Who are you again?” he said with his finger jammed up his nose.

“I’m James. I’m your grandfather. Probably.”

“Oh yeah. Didn’t you movie that one movie with that girl with the nice tits?”

“Hell yeah dude. That ruled.”

“Fuck yeah,” he said. Then farted. Cornelius stood up and brushed off the Cheeto dust from his Hoobastank hoodie and announced his departure. “Welp, I’m gonna go play Zelda and beat off,” he said. Then left.

“Rick,” I said, “what a fine young man you raised!”

“Yeah,” Rick shrugged, “he’s a little “developmentally delayed” if you know what I mean.”

“But he reminds me of some much of myself at that age!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Dude your getting a Buick

As I sat behind the wheel of my sleek new 2024 Buick Envista I asked myself a question: what happened to Ben Curtis, the actor who uttered the greatest marketing catchphrase of all time? (Come to find out, he was busted for marijuana in 2003) So with the mind of Don Draper, I consulted ChatGPT in an effort to put the great commercial thespian back to work. Here are the results:

“In a sleek, modern dealership, Matthew McConaughey, clad in his signature suit, saunters in with an air of mystique. As he approaches the reception desk, who else but Ben Curtis, the iconic ‘Dude, you’re getting a Dell’ guy, stands ready to assist, now a seasoned car salesman.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Matthew drawls, his gaze drifting towards the shitty Lincolns on display. “I’m in the market for something smooth, somethin’ that whispers luxury with every turn of the wheel.”

But Ben, ever the persuader, intercepts with a knowing smile. “Matthew,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “let me show you something that’ll blow your mind.” With a flourish, he guides Matthew towards the gleaming Buicks, each exuding an air of understated elegance.

As they stroll past the Buicks, Matthew’s curiosity piqued, Ben regales him with tales of performance, comfort, and sophistication. Matthew listens intently, his trademark introspection blending seamlessly with Ben’s persuasive charm.

Finally, they stand before a particularly stunning Buick, its lines sleek, its interior opulent. Matthew’s eyes light up with newfound appreciation. “You know what, Ben?” he muses, a grin spreading across his face. “I believe you’ve shown me the way. I’m gettin’ a Buick.”

With a triumphant chuckle, Ben claps Matthew on the back. “Dude, you’re getting a Buick!” he exclaims, his voice carrying the same infectious enthusiasm that once sold computers by the truckload.

As the camera pans out, Matthew slides behind the wheel of his new Buick, a symbol of sophistication and style. And with one final nod to Ben, the unlikely duo seals the deal, ushering in a new era of automotive allure.”

And yet another shot at the title (part xxxsomething)

I stared at my shirtless Tom Selleck poster for hours. It occurred to me that since Pablo jumped ship to Greta’s team that I didn’t have a friend in the world. I called up Dan to see if he wanted to swing by Olive Garden for a few drinks. “Heh. I shoot endangered cougars with James Woods up in Mt. Baldy. Why would I want to get a drink with you?” he said.

Fair enough, I thought.

I didn’t want to take the five minute drive to Glendale. But it was time. Perhaps Slick Rick was still in his air duster huffing phase and I thought maybe we could spend the afternoon killing a few brain cells together. Just like the old days. I hadn’t seen him in 15 years. So I drove my trike out to Glendale while blasting Night Ranger on repeat. When I knocked on the door a plump Latina answered.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hi, is Slick Rick home?”

“No comprende,” she shrugged.

“Slick Rick. Is this his house?”

“Father?” a voice behind me said. I turn around and saw an aged Slick Rick standing there with a bloody shirt and wielding a chainsaw.

“Rick!” I exclaimed. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

“Oh yeah, great,” he said. “I was just out back slaughtering some chickens. Let me get cleaned up and I’ll join you on the porch.”

When he went back inside, I pulled out a cigarillo and lit it up. A small golden haired girl came out the front door and cocked her head. “Are you my grandpa?” she asks.

I’ve heard that question a hundred times. “Probably,” I said, “god knows I’ve banged enough women in this town. Glendale, that is. In fact, there was an old whore I used to frequent. Chinese I think she was. I hope she wasn’t a sex trafficked victim. I’d feel pretty bad about that. But I’ve forgiven myself since then.”

“Slick Rick is my dad,” she said.

“Oh okay,” I told her as I puffed on my cigarillo. “Yeah, his mom was a whore. An expensive one. Not from Glendale though. I think she was Vietnamese. Did you know that I fragged my commanding officer when I was in Vietnam? It wasn’t during the war. It was an accident. It didn’t kill him but it did maim about a dozen people. I’ve forgiven myself for that too.”

“I’m six years old!” the girl blissfully smiled.

“No shit? Ya know, when I was six years old, I was a drug mule for the Mexican cartels. They’d give me a nickel for every ounce of cocaine I was able to shove up the ass of….”

“How you been dad!” Rick said all cleaned up as he stepped on the porch. “Care for a beer?”

“Daddy!” the girl squealed then ran into Rick’s arms.

“No thanks. I’m already drunk,” I told him.

“I’m sorry about my wife earlier,” Rick explained. “She doesn’t speak English.”

“Hell, I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“I don’t. So what brings you by? It’s been nearly 20 years.”

“15 to be exact. I dunno, Cassandra told me about you. I figured you might be in some trouble or something. And why the hell do you still talk to Cassandra?”

“Trouble? Dad, I’m the most successful chiropractor in Glendale. I’m on the city council for fucks sake.”

“No shit? Goddamn son, what the hell happened? One minute you’re junkie suckin off Japanese business men behind Chipotle and now you’re the one getting sucked off?!”

“People change dad.”

I puffed on the cigarillo. “Ya know, I don’t think I’ve changed at all. Fuck that shit.”

“I can tell.”

“So why do you still talk to Cassandra?”

“Well,” Rick pondered as he gazed out across the lawn, “I always thought she was the only person to have ever cared about me.”

“I cared about you.”

“You never showed it.”

I could feel the tension brewing in the air. “Rick,” I said, “there’s something I always wanted to tell you. You see, that Russian bullet that struck me in the head. Remember? On that field in whatever that country was called? Well, something happened.”

“Yeah, you lost a lot of brain matter. In fact, you were deemed mentally handicapped.”

“No I was deemed that way before. Something else happened. I had a vision Rick. A vision that so terrified me that I hope to never experience it again. I lost you Slick Rick. You couldn’t imagine the pain I felt. I was afraid. I was afraid of losing you again. I guess that’s why I didn’t come around as much after that.” I finished my cigarillo and flicked out into the lawn. “I just thought you should know,” I concluded.

I tipped my hat and departed down the steps back towards the trike. When I was halfway across the lawn, Rick shouted. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Woe is me

Another day with my expensive ass hair with my empty ass bank account under the burning ass sun. How much shall I suffer? Some days I walk out into the Home Depot parking lot and shake my fist at the heavens and cry out “goddamn the gods for making me beautiful!”

My sorrow, the empty depths of my soul, knows no bounds. I’m hollow. I feel nothing but contempt for myself and all of humanity. When the waitress at Waffle House asked me if I wanted coffee, I said “only if it’s black. Like the asshole of Satan.”

I don’t recognize that disgusting, HADSOME man in the mirror. I never knew him anyway. But now I’m more unknown; living with a stranger.

When a lady approached me at a park where my son was playing, she asked “how old is he?” I said “look lady! I don’t know who you think you are but I am more than just a pretty man at the park! Somewhere, deep inside, is an actual human being! And some day I’m gonna find that man and I’m going to kiss him on the lips and tell him that he doesn’t need any of this shit…this fake ass hair, this false facade of handsomeness! I don’t need none of it! You see, long ago, there was a boy whose hair started falling out of his head. He didn’t know why. But it changed the trajectory of his life. He was, as they say, an ugly duckling throughout adolescence. He began to resent others, and worse yet, he began to resent himself. It affected every facet of his life; consumed him, made him feel inferior. Then one day he decided to do something about it. He was going to get fake hair. And now he has it and it has changed nothing. He feels more worthless than ever. That boy became me, the one standing here telling you this story. People tell me all the time ‘oh it’s okay that you flushed money down the toilet. Life’s too short to be feeling the way you do.’ But they’re wrong. Because life isn’t too short; it’s too long. It’s much too long for us to live our lives with the constant feeling of regret. I’m dead inside. You understand me? So fuck off!”

Where life goes from here is unknown. But that’s the path we all take. I thought being dangerously good looking would solve all my problems. But it was only a mirage.

On having hair (part II)

They say being beautiful ain’t easy.

Actually I don’t know if anyone said that. But it’s true. For starters, it’s goddamn expensive. Like, CRAZY expensive. The truth is that you’re probably not ugly. You’re just poor.

I learned this the hard way with my Faustian bargain to be hot. Before I corrected my balding problem, I was a normal, schlubby Joe. But with the hair, I’m now a hot dad; perhaps on par with Luke Perry in Riverdale.

But you see, when I finally got the hair on my head, I had a dark realization: I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care that I was an ugly, stupid-looking jackass with a poor sense of style. Sure it cost me a lot of money to realize this but it was all worth it. Because I finally overcame a problem that I’ve experienced since 13 years of age. My self-worth no longer hinged on my shitty looks. I was a new man.

I should’ve listened to that strange voice in the back of my head. It’s not schizophrenia. It’s clear rationalization; of clarity. It’s a rationalization akin to Marx’s commodity fetishism, as if plain objects have some sort of holy power. But they don’t. They’re merely products that civilization programmed to make us think we need. I first heard this voice on Christmas Day in 1994. I got the very present that I wanted: a toy replica of the Enterprise D. I was ecstatic. But then a strange thought occurred to me: what was it about this object that made me so happy? It was just a piece of plastic. In short, I became a Marxist at 7 years old.

So back to present day, I knew that this hair would not fill the deep void of happiness in my heart. But I forked over a FUCKTON of money for it anyway. And now, here I am, hot as shit. Not only am I sexy as all get out, but my bank account is empty.

All that’s left now is a beautiful shell of a man.

All that crazy hot sex for nothing.

And another shot at the title (part xxxii)

I frantically called up Dan after receiving the horrendous news from Greta. “Did you hear that Greta is getting 100% of the merchandising rights from Chatty Cathy?” I shouted over the phone.

“Will you relax?” he explained. “I have a plan.”

“You’re my de facto agent, so you better have a plan!”

“We’re going to kill Greta.”

“What?!”

“In the press.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “What did you dig up on her?” I ask.

“She’s a tyrant on set James! 20 seconds of research will tell you that.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t know Dan,” I said. “I’ve been called that too but I’m still working.”

“But you have five times more accolades than her. You’re able to get away with it.”

I wasn’t so sure. “I’m gonna level with you Dan, I don’t like this plan at all,” I told him.

“Look, I know that we don’t have much leverage in this case so clearly this will be a slow burn. But we gotta use what we have. Maybe a few months of endless hounding from the press will force her to resign. Afterwards, contracts will be renegotiated and I’ll get you full control of merchandising rights. It’s the best we got!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxxi)

“$400 million?!” Greta shouted.

“That’s his asking price,” I said.

“$400 million for an actor that hasn’t been in a picture in 20 years and was never that popular to begin with?”

“It’s only money,” I shrugged.

Greta shook her head. “There’s no way,” she said. “You might as well pile that money in this office and light it on fire. And besides, I already offered the role to Ryan Duckling.”

“But I already offered Casper the role.”

“When were you going to discuss this with me?!”

“When were you going to discuss Ryan Duckling with me?”

Greta tried to reply but words kept failing her. Finally I shushed her and spoke in a low, calming tone. “Why are we always fighting?” I asked. “Aren’t we a team? Isn’t this production supposed to be the teaming up of the two greatest filmmakers of our time? There’s got to be a way to resolve this as two sensible people.”

“James, like you’ve done many times before, you hijacked this movie!”

“Now wait a minute! You wanted me here! Sure you fired me and I took the studio to court and got an attorney killed, but that’s all in the past! This is now. So might I suggest a compromise: give Ryan the lead. Casper can be the villain. Does that sound fair?”

“And the $400 million?”

“I’ll pay it out of my own pocket. What does it matter to me? I fart on set and I make $400 million.”

“You’re a fool. The villain is only on screen for 10 minutes.”

“Worth every penny.”

“That’s $666,666 per second of screen time.”

“So it’s a deal?”

“You do what you want. I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” she explained as she gathered up paperwork. “I gotta be on the sound stage in 20 minutes.”

When I asked her about Pablo, her mood changed. “Oh he’s wonderful,” Greta beamed. “Did you know he played chess in college?”

I was puzzled. “Pablo went to college?” I ask.

“Yeah. Majored in physics. Minored in Russian literature.”

“Pablo?!”

“Yup. And he negotiated an incredible contract. He knows this picture will make billions. So I’m entitled to all the merchandising rights. Isn’t that great!”

“He never did that for me.”

“He’s one of the best in the business. You know, you never should have let him go as your agent.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Pablo?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Two thumbs up!

So while I was contemplating my mortality and the meaninglessness of existence it suddenly occurred to me: now would be the perfect time to make a movie about Siskel and Ebert.

But who would be willing to make such a low stakes dream about two unsexy guys that talk about movies? Well to me, the choice is clear: it’s Ben Affleck. What makes that choice so appealing is that not only can Affleck perform behind the camera, but he perform in front of it as none other than Gene Siskel. Just lose 50lbs, throw on a bald cap, and BAM…you have the film critic from the Chicago Tribune. Even better to play opposite of him would be his good buddy Matt Damon as Roger Ebert. Affleck can transfer some of his lost weight over to Damon, throw on a wig, and now we have the Pulitzer Prize-winning critic from the Chicago Sun-Times. It would be a great irony to have two very hot actors from the 90s play the very misshapen critics that reviewed them earlier in their careers.

The source material for this film would of course be Matt Singer’s Opposable Thumbs: How Siskel and Ebert Changed Movies Forever. Reading that book you realize that their on screen rivalry wasn’t a put on. They genuinely had a sibling-like love/hate relationship with each other. While Ebert was no saint (there’s one instance earlier in the show’s history that had me shaking my head), Siskel was so competitive that he’d deliberately do things to fuck with his co-worker’s career outside of the show. As the series progressed, their relationship became more cordial, but Siskel kept his battle with cancer mostly private with Ebert not knowing the full extent of it until it was too late. Ebert was hurt by this until his own death in 2013.

Would people be willing to go to the theaters to watch this? Fuck no! This is straight to Amazon Prime shit. Which is strange considering the subject material is about two guys who go to the theaters. But I think there’s enough elder millennials and Gen Xers who clamoring for this kind of stuff. So Ben Affleck should get to pulling the trigger on this project.

Quantum of solace

I don’t think there was a soul on this planet that wasn’t disappointed with Quantum of Solace upon its release, especially after the Bond franchise was riding high with Casino Royale two years earlier. But I have since changed my view. While I’d never argue that it’s the best Bond film, I will certainly argue that it might be the most interesting one.

But we should get this out of the way: the editing is atrocious. While the action makes more sense on second or third viewing , it presents itself as a mess on the first. Which is a shame because Quantum of Solace is a very fine looking film. It’s up there with one of the best in the franchise. While I think the filmmakers were going for a more rugged and frantic style that I think was in vogue at the time, they did themselves a disservice. Even by 2008, that look had overstayed its welcome. My biggest complaint with the movie is that they didn’t let shots linger and worse yet I hated some of the clunky transitions. Some have often wondered if there is missing material that, to my knowledge at least, has not been shown to the public. If that’s the case, then Marc Forster deserves to have his director’s cut.

But most of the complaints from the time were with the script and the rather low stakes that Bond finds himself in compared to other films. It’s not about world domination this time. The villain just wants control of Bolivia’s water supply. That’s pretty unsexy all things considered. But in retrospect, it’s the script (that I think was “hampered” due to a writer’s strike) that I quite like. Bond doesn’t go to his usual uppity Mediterranean stomping grounds. This time he’s in often overlooked locations like Port Au Prince and the aforementioned Bolivia. And I think that these unusual places (for Bond) works in the movie’s favor. This isn’t the usual travel log that we’re used to seeing. One thing that was never explored in these movies is the often cynical and political nature of clandestine operations. We’re only shown the sexy side. So I think Marc Forster did an excellent job at contrasting the luxurious high life of James Bond with the poverty stricken lives of real, discarded nations that we typically want to ignore.

But this leads me to a problem: should James Bond be political? While I don’t have an issue with the film itself being political, I could argue that it would be somewhat out of character for James Bond to be cognizant of these issues. As I’ve always said, James Bond is a dangerous man who’s found a profession that works for him. There shouldn’t be a political bone in his body. Obviously they wanted to expand the character under Daniel Craig, which I think was a rousing success. But some of the issues brought up in the script sounded like they were from Craig personally (I believe during the writer’s strike he had some input into the screenplay) and not something organically from Bond. But I digress. I can see both sides of the issue.

But what I liked best about Quantum is how many of the trends in Bond pictures are bucked. Despite killing numerous people, Bond doesn’t directly kill the bad guy OR the object of his revenge. Additionally, he doesn’t sleep with the leading lady (a very underrated Bond girl in my opinion) and the one woman he does sleep with, he later gets yelled at by M for taking advantage of her. There are many times where this outright doesn’t feel like a 007 picture and it works for me.

I think the best way to view Quantum of Solace is to see it as an extension of Casino Royale. In fact, watch it immediately after Casino Royale. While I praise Marc Forster, I think it was a shame that Martin Campbell didn’t return for Quantum. I think that would have added a degree of stylistic continuity that viewers missed in 2008. But as it is, I think Quantum of Solace deserves a rewatch.